The Argosy/Volume 49/Issue 1/The Run on the Herdsman's

HERE was a time, even now not beyond the memory of some of our graybeards, when Chicago and Harksbury stood upon a precisely equal footing as regarded the killing of beeves and the shipping of meat.

Then times changed, as times will, and men and their plans changed with them. The capital that was interested in meat-packing seemed inexplicably to flow toward Chicago; in Harksbury the industry stood still.

Unavailing efforts were made to revive that beautiful temporary boom. The huge Graves slaughter-house continued a brisk enough business—even built a group of additions in the course of time, and eventually a big refrigerating plant—and some half-dozen smaller establishments still operated, but that was the extent of beef-dressing done at Harksbury.

However, the little town was not altogether idle in other directions. Shoe factories grew up, and a monster tin-plate plant. The population swelled from four figures to five, and progressed cheeringly into the 'teens of thousands, and Harksbury came to be in every way a satisfactory city.

It was a great point of pride with Harksbury that everything in town was solid; everything paid and kept on paying.

There was money and to spare for all requirements, public and private—for asphalt streets and electric lights and sewers, for residences that grew more ornate and expensive with each new erection, for churches and schools and libraries. Harksbury, in a word, existed calmly and happily in that heavenly state we call Assured Prosperity.

Conceive, therefore, the shock when one morning during the last money panic, Harksbury awoke to find that the Trust Company had closed its doors!

There were many who had had open misgivings about that Trust Company, and they wore a placid I-told-you-so air that maddened many others who had not.

The former contingent was frank in believing that the smash would have come in any event; the latter knew for a moral certainty—which was the fact, by the way—that the prevailing upheaval in the money world had been at the bottom of the affair.

At any rate, the Trust Company was out of business, temporarily at least, and a state of things ensued hitherto unknown to smug little Harksbury.

Something past noon that day, the poor young Stone Street Bank began to feel a sad tugging at its purse-strings. The tagging increased—the tuggers grew from a long line to an uneasy crowd.

The Stone Street people paid and paid and paid until three o'clock. Next morning they continued paying and paying and paying.

And at noon three or four policemen gently persuaded the depositors to step outside and the big doors closed, and a weary-looking clerk stepped up inside and pasted a little white notice on the glass panel.

The Stone Street Bank had suspended, too!

Two of Harksbury's financial institutions had gone by the board—two remained: the Bank of Harksbury and the Herdsman's Bank, down by the stockyards.

The former held the bulk of Harksbury's ready money; and the way that Harksbury, having regained breath, descended upon it was what is sometimes termed a caution.

Huge notices were posted at the beginning of the rush, little circulars were even mailed to the depositors that first evening, frankly setting forth the situation and making it clear that Harksbury had it within her power either to wreck or to perpetuate her main bank.

Perhaps the arguments appealed to the depositors collectively; it is very likely that they did. But individually each of them wanted his money, and wanted it right away; and the simplest method of satisfying the want was to take the next trolley down-town and get on the line that stretched a block beyond the Harksbury Bank.

This last run had been going on for one solid, dreary day and part of another, when young Robert Janeway, superintendent of the Graves packing establishment and refrigerating plant, stepped across the alley that separated the abattoir from the Herdsman's Bank, to pay a morning call upon his brother Richard, who happened to be cashier of the institution.

He found the latter with an outthrust under lip and an unlighted cigar, staring with just the least suggestion of a frown at the calendar on his desk.

His face cleared, though, as the little door swung open, and he turned with a cheery:

"Hello, Bob."

"Hello, Dick." The younger man found himself a chair and reached over for the cigar-case that lay in sight. "You look chipper."

"Feel so—reasonably."

"You're not worried, then?"

"Not particularly."

"Things seem to be getting pretty lively up-town—they say there's a dickens of a run on the Harksbury." The cashier smiled amiably.

"So I hear."

"Well, why hasn't it struck the Herdsman's? That's what beats me!"

His brother laughed.

"It doesn't beat me, Bob. I've been giving a bit of thought to the subject—naturally—and I can't see any real reason why there should be a run here. For one thing, we're the richest bank in town."

"Even so, the depositors have just that much more to get scared about."

"Very true, but there's another point as well, my boy—most of our depositors live out of town—in the cattle country and elsewhere."

"The shoe factory people don't."

"No, of course not. But a great part of the others do. News doesn't reach them so quickly."

"Maybe not, but when it does—phew! Won't there be a rush for Harksbury!"

"I don't know that there will."

"I do! You'll see those drovers flock in here by hundreds and roar out for their cash. Don't believe it, eh? You never can tell what's going to happen at a time like this."

"No; as a matter of fact, Bob, I don't believe it. Still"—his face grew grave—"it is very true that one can't tell."

"And suppose there was a run? Could you stand it?"

"Well"—the elder Janeway chewed his cigar—"it would depend very largely on the size of the run. Things are strained mighty hard just now, as you seem to be aware. We haven't much money, and we'd have to scratch like sin To get more. Nevertheless, we could stand any ordinary demands on us."

"If they come, they won't be ordinary—I'll gamble on that!"

"Look here, my pessimistic young brother," said the cashier, "will you kindly dry up about runs and such like cheerful things? Don't you suppose I've been over this devilish situation somewhere between three and four thousand times? If a run should come, we'd have to do the best we know how—that's all. But I've got my mind firmly made up that there isn't going to be any run—sort of Christian Science or New Thought treatment, I guess—and if you have no objection, we'll let it rest at that until we're forced to do otherwise."

"Good, sensible way to look at it," the Graves superintendent commented.

He nodded to some one passing the glass partition.

"Who's that?" Richard, behind his desk, could not see the entrance.

"Carter, Dick."

"Frank Carter?"

"Same old Frank Carter, manager of the Smith shoe factory."

"Yes." The cashier shook his head impatiently. "He's after his payroll, confound him! I wish to Heaven they'd postpone payday for a week this time!"

"What does it amount to?"

"Oh, about nineteen hundred, as a rule. Thunder! I don't want to pay that out to-day!"

"Can't be helped," smiled his brother.

"No, I suppose it can't."

Richard Janeway drummed on his desk for a moment and mentally condemned people who had to have payrolls in the middle of a money panic. He turned quickly as a teller entered.

"What is it, Brown?"

"Mr. Carter, Mr. Janeway. He's just turned in his check for five thousand four hundred!"

"Fifty-four hundred!" The cashier gasped. "What the deuce does he want all that for?"

"Don't know, sir. It wipes out his account to a few dollars, I think."

"Five thousand four hundred dollars!" muttered the elder Janeway. "It's nearly four thousand more than he's ever drawn on Monday before!"

"Yes, sir."

"Must be taking on new hands up at the shoe place," the young brother commented facetiously. "That's a husky little payroll, Dick."

The cashier scowled, then turned to the teller with a resigned shrug.

"Well, give it to him. That's all, Brown."

"Very well, sir."

The door clicked again, and the cashier whistled softly. His brother wagged a knowing head.

"What did I tell you?"

"There's no need to gloat over it, Bob. Carter's taken a bit of a fright—that's all it amounts to. I don't blame him altogether."

"And he looks relieved. There he goes now, with a wad of greenbacks big enough to fill a wheelbarrow."

"Fifty—four—hundred!" Richard repeated under his breath. "Well, I hope most fervently that he's the first and last of his kind."

"So do I."

"Oh, pshaw, he must be!" The cashier was trying hard to convince himself. "There's nothing to justify a run on this bank. We're fully equal to weathering even this crisis, if they'll let us alone. We're solid in so many ways"

"Aha! Another."

"Another what?"

"Another old friend, Dick. Look at him."

The cashier arose and glanced along the bank; he sat down again with a smile of satisfaction.

"That's only old Jim Coles, the cattleman. This is his day for depositing—fifth of the month, you know. Well, that means five or six hundred, at least."

"Does it, though? Is he in the habit of depositing his cash at the paying teller's window?"

"The what?"

"He's standing there now. Yes, as sure as you're born, he's passing in a check to be cashed!"

"Good Lord!"

Richard Janeway was on his feet again. He squinted down toward the window; finally he strolled through the little cages toward the teller.

He glanced casually over the clerk's shoulder. There lay a check, laboriously signed "James C. Coles," and written for three thousand dollars!

"Ah, good-morning, Mr. Coles," said the cashier, with a smile in which the pleasure was plainly forced.

"Mornin'," The drover's volubility seemed to have vanished.

"Fine day, isn't it?"

"Toler'ble."

"Making a draft on us, I see?"

"Yep."

"Going to do some buying?"

"Nope."

Janeway was rather nonplussed. Coles seemed dogged and avoided meeting his eye. He shifted before the window for a moment, then grunted somewhat gruffly:

"Gimme fifties and hundreds, mister. I'm in a hurry."

He received his money and left quickly. The cashier returned to the office, a troubled light in his eyes.

"How much?" asked the Graves superintendent.

"Three thousand. Bob. Nearly nine thousand dollars paid out in ten minutes!"

"Phew!"

"I wonder Jimminy, it does look as if it were coming!"

"I should say it did! And when that eleven o'clock train gets in"

"It's going to bring some of our out-of-town friends? Yes, I'm afraid that's not outside the possibilities."

Robert glanced at the clock and recalled that the Graves Company was not paying him a salary for morning calls. He strolled to the door of the office, and was about to say good-by when the telephone bell took to ringing. He paused.

The cashier stepped to the 'phone.

"Hello! Hello! Yes—Janeway, yes. Oh, is this you, Thomason?"

"Thomason, eh?" muttered the younger brother. "The Bank of Harksbury must be on the wire!"

"Yes?—Is that so?—Yes, I knew about it.—What? What?—Just now? Great Cæsar!—All right, thanks for letting us know.—No. I don't see that we can do anything else.—No.—Good-by."

When Richard Janeway turned back his face was several shades paler.

"Well, the Harksbury has closed up, Bob."

"Harksbury, too!"

"Yes. Thomason says that all the big depositors must have secured first places on the line. They've been absolutely cleaned out—he says they've got about seven dollars in cash—all told."

"Good gracious!"

"And we're next now!" groaned the cashier. "The Christian Science treatment was no go, was it?"

"Seems not."

"Well, skip out of here, Bob." The cashier ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll have to think up some scheme or other—I'm blest if I know what!"

With sympathetic words, the Graves superintendent left.

From his private office at the top of the next building he watched almost involuntarily for a sight he knew to be inevitable.

He was not disappointed. Just before half-past eleven, knots of three or four were to be seen coming down the street below—big, burly, rough-clad men from the ranches.

They hurried, too, and at the door of the Herdsman's Bank they disappeared. Afterward, singly, they emerged and walked away more slowly.

The news had indeed traveled, and the run on the bank was under way!

The one o'clock train brought more—the one-fifty still more. They appeared regularly at the corner of the street leading to the railway station: others, resident depositors, could be seen dropping off the trolley cars two blocks away and scurrying toward the bank. Within an hour Robert came to know perfectly what their movements would be.

They popped into view, walking leisurely. They looked down the street and saw a group of people, and quickened their pace. Coming nearer, they knew the group to be at the Herdsman's, and they ran the last half-block at full tilt.

At two or three-minute intervals they stirred, swayed forward and parted again. A man walked out and stepped briskly up the street, carrying in his pocket just so and so many dollars from the Herdsman's treasury.

Thus far it was a very quiet, orderly proceeding, but for the bank it was spelling Disaster with a large D.

Something past three, Robert managed another trip to his brother's office.

The doors were closed, and in the street a crowd of unsatisfied men talked rapidly and loudly. There were gesticulations, and here and there a candid shaking of fists.

The general opinion was all too evident—they were first on the spot, and there they would remain until the bank opened on the morrow and business was resumed. Regardless of the eighteen or nineteen hours of discomfort that must ensue, they formed in regular order along the wall, some lounging, some sitting on the pavement, some calling to passing boys to bring them sandwiches or some other refreshment.

The cashiers face was drawn when his brother entered for the second time that day.

"Your friends seem determined," the latter remarked.

"They're all of that, Bob."

"Are they going to spend the night there?"

"Looks like it."

"Pshaw! How are things going?" "Rotten!" replied the cashier tersely and inelegantly.

"Cash running out?"

"Running out. No, it's not—it has run out!"

"All gone?"

"All but three or four hundred dollars, Bob. I instructed the tellers to dilly-dally and fuss and fumble as much as they could, and I fancy that they've been doing it, but if three o'clock had been ten minutes later we should have had to suspend to-day!"

"And as it is?"

"We shall have to suspend about ten minutes after we open to-morrow!" said the cashier bitterly. "Mercifully, a lot of the little fellows came in first—that's all that saved us this afternoon. When we open in the morning—well, there's Bainbridge, cashier of the tin-plate works, sitting on the step. He's third in the line."

"How much will he want?"

"Seven thousand and something. Can't you see him getting it?" Richard laughed harshly.

"It—it does look bad!" the Graves superintendent contributed.

"Bad! It's more than bad—it's absolute ruin! And the worst of it is that it's entirely unnecessary. This fiendish situation isn't going to last more than a day or two longer—I had wires from Chicago this morning stating that two or three of the big fellows are going to resume. The panic will be over at the end of the week—all over. And this bank needn't break at all unless the depositors go to work deliberately and smash it, as they did the Harksbury! Why on earth can't the fools realize that? Why can't they—oh, damn!"

Outside the broad window, two or three had taken note of the cashier's excited mien and commented thereon. Several more hurried to the bars before the pane and stared curiously inward.

Richard sat down with his back to the crowd and lit a cigar.

"Well, cussing won't help it much," his brother observed.

"I'm afraid it won't, but—oh, well, they'll have it their own way, any way, I suppose. First come, first served, and the devil take the hindmost!"

"Looks as if he would, too, just now. See here, Dick, have you done anything toward getting more cash?"

"Not being entirely daft, I have. But it won't help us now, that I can see. I sent Burroughs, the assistant cashier, up to Chicago on the two o'clock express. He'll get in too late to do anything much to-day. In the morning, I've ordered him to hustle about and raise all the money he can before the eleven o'clock train leaves. We'll have to shut up shop long before eleven o'clock, however, as things appear now—and he may not be able to get any money at that."

"Hum."

Robert Janeway had taken to sharpening his pencil in an absent-minded fashion. Having achieved the very perfection of smooth points, he proceeded further to carefully carve scrolls along the length of wood. That, accomplished, he set about rounding off the end.

Finally, however, he snapped the knife-blade and looked across at his brother with a queer little grin.

"Dick, that fatal run is cock-sure to come in the morning, isn't it?"

"Cork-sure."

"And you'd like to avoid it?"

"Yes, we'd be real happy to avoid it," his brother acquiesced dryly.

"All right then; we will."

"Hey?"

"I said that we'd try avoiding it."

"What the deuce have you in mind?"

"What's in the cellar?" inquired the Graves superintendent irrelevantly.

"Eh? Why, the vaults, of course."

"What else?"

"Oh, old packing-cases in the rear, I suppose, and the gas-meter, and the furnace, and a couple of broken chairs. Why?"

"Never mind. Is our old friend Timothy still night watchman?"

"Of course." "All right. You be sure to tell Timothy to come over and see me as soon as he reports for work. I'm going to spend a few hours with him to-night, just for sociability's sake, as it were. And the bank will open its door on time to-morrow morning, and there'll be no run, I'll guarantee' that."

"But—"

"Oh, don't bother about details. As a reputable bank official, you might have a conscience and object. Anybody like me, who associates with a few thousand chilled corpses every day, can't be expected to distinguish between the strictly right and the possibly wrong. You send Timothy over, come down to business on time in the morning—and leave the rest to me. Good-afternoon, Richard."

He was gone; and Richard Janeway, having stared at the closed door for a moment, turned savagely to his desk and came near to swearing at a brother who could be flippant at such a time.

Toward evening, though, he grew more desperate, more in a mood to snatch at straws. The outlook was becoming blacker and blacker; and when Timothy appeared, just as he was about to leave, the cashier paused and, with shame in his heart, directed him to step across the back alley to the parking-house and ask for Mr. Robert Janeway, who wished to see him.

He had no particular desire to push through that inquiring crowd outside. He left by the rear entrance and surveyed the ground from the corner.

Undeniably, there was a quantity of anxious ones down there by the door. The line had grown—longer and thicker. It covered almost the block, and reenforcements [sic] were arriving all the time. Another train would be due from the ranch country at ten—another at eight next morning. What would happen at nine, when the bank was to open for business?

Janeway knew his clientele—knew that they lived near to nature and that natural instinct predominated. When they found that their money was not forthcoming would they break loose?

Would they not very likely tumble pell-mell into the bank and essay a loot—where there was nothing to loot? Was there not a very good chance of their swarming in and attempting to shoot up the outfit?

Well, they were perfectly welcome to try it! Having demolished the business standing of the institution, they might as well make an end of the structure itself, if it pleased them.

The cashier shrugged his shoulders again and strode off for the car-line.

He waited through most of the night for news from Burroughs, for he had directed that any important cheering information should be sent to his home. None came, and toward morning he snatched a few hours of sleep.

Throughout the panic he had considered that the game was fairly within his hands: now it had left them entirely, and he became resigned to the end.

Me walked to the Herdsman's Bank next morning fully prepared to see the throng, further augmented, clamoring at the doors.

He was most pleasantly disappointed.

Not only were the depositor? refraining from battering down the panels, but they seemed to have conceived an actual distaste for the Herdsman's Bank! For fifty feet either way there was not a soul on the sidewalk—most of the waiting crowd had assembled across the street!

Among those nearest the bank he recognized the clerical force, some of them bareheaded, standing about and talking hard among themselves. He pushed closer, and from half a dozen directions at once he heard the word "ammonia," and wondered further.

Then he was through and in the open space—and he found himself choking and gagging. The air was filled to suffocation with the odor of ammonia!

The doors of the Herdsman's were open, and the unbearable stench seemed to surge through and into the outer air. Janeway recalled his brother's words of the night before, stared hard at the open doors, and shook his head.

For the moment it was beyond him.

He searched for Brown, the paying teller, and found him devoid of hat and with red, running eyes.

"What's happened. Brown?"

"The Lord only knows, Mr. Janeway." The teller coughed and wheezed. "We were just getting ready to open up when—it came!"

"It? What?"

"That fearful ammonia, sir! Great Scott, it's something awful in there! It just seemed to pour in from everywhere at once. There's no living within ten yards of the place, sir."

"But where the deuce does it come from?"

"One of the ice-machines in the cold-storage plant next door burst, they say. We sent word around to know what was up, and that's what they told us. They hope to have it fixed by noon, sir."

The cashier, shielding his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, tried to enter and investigate. He walked through the very doors, watched curiously by the crowd, and stepped into the main aisle of the bank.

His stay was brief. There seemed no breath of air in the place—every cubic inch had been replaced by the strangling fumes of ammonia gas.

With an effort and a distress that were in no way simulated, Janeway staggered into the open air, fell, and was dragged away by a daring clerk.

He recovered himself in a minute or two, and one great fact rose uppermost in his mind—beyond all dispute, there would be no run on the Herdsman's Bank until the building was clear of that infernal smell!

He permitted himself a quiet smile. Whether this were chance or some of Robert's work, the result was glowingly perfect.

But a crowd of money-mad men do not stand long upon ceremony. A sort of informal meeting took place at about ten o'clock, and a delegation was appointed to call at the Graves plant and ask whether the ammonia could not be cut off or turned away from the bank.

They were received most politely by the superintendent. He was charmingly frank and anxious to please.

lie told them that one of the ammonia ice-machines had broken during the night, while in charge of an inexperienced workmen; that, as they would readily understand, no repairs could be made until that particular cylinder had exhausted itself and they were able to send workmen to the snot; that, however, there was every prospect of their getting at the job within fifteen minutes or half an hour, when the regrettable nuisance would, of course, cease.

They asked why the bank was so full of gas, and he told them that the machine, being located at the side which abutted on the Herdsman's, had blown away a portion of the wall and was discharging its deadly vapors straight at the bank. He added a further brief dissertation on the marvelous penetrating powers of ammonia, and suggested that if any one doubted his words they might step inside and conduct a personal investigation.

No one cared to attempt it. The delegation returned to the main body and another consultation followed.

Something like half an hour later they reached a new conclusion.

It being plainly impossible to do business in the Herdsman's Bank, the sole alternative was to do it outside. In short, as a newly chosen committee of three set forth to Richard Janeway, it was the duty of the bank officials to bring forth their cash and their books and conduct the banking in the street!

Warrantably, he declined. The committee returned. Very shortly a murmuring arose. The crowd drew together and advanced as a solid mass upon the cashier.

Here and there a rough shout arose, demanding that the money be brought out and paid in order. They crushed against Janeway and the tellers and forced them along toward the wall of the bank, the ammonia notwithstanding.

When finally the vapors did halt them, the cashier leaped to one of the lower window ledges and, clinging by the bars, addressed them with pithy informality.

"See here, all of you!" he shouted. "I don't know what's wrong in there, but I'm not responsible for it, and I'm not going to lose my life by going into the vaults for money—nor am I going to sacrifice any of the employees! You'll have to wait until the machine can be fixed, when business will be resumed." A dozen voices yelled at him, and he shouted again:

"I'm sorry you don't like it, but if you think it's possible to enter that place just now, go right in and take all you can lay hands on!"

It was an unexpected suggestion, and, excited as they were, they adopted it without due thought. With a simultaneous impulse, the crowd surged about and straight toward the main entrance.

Janeway caught his breath and wondered for an instant whether he had not been the most monumental kind of idiot to make that last statement and run the chance it entailed—but no; it was all over even then!

The leaders, as they came to the open doors, shrieked aloud and pushed frantically backward. One or two fell prone and were in danger of a trampling.

Some five or six seconds they swayed uncertainly—and the ammonia won! To the last man the depositors fled precipitately from the invisible, invincible foe.

No further talk of assault was heard. There was a fluttering of handkerchiefs as eyes were wiped; there were coughings innumerable and curses as well, but no one cared risking another rush. They settled instead to a season of dogged waiting—for they wanted their money, and some of them had spent the night waiting for it already, and they would wait now until the ammonia had dissipated itself, whether it consumed the day or the week!

When things in general had quieted down, Janeway heard the tolling of eleven from the distant City Hall clock, and some five or six minutes later he distinguished the whistle of the outgoing train as it took a crossing beyond Harksbury.

Burroughs must be in town now. What success had he to relate? Or had he returned empty handed?

It was an anxious quarter-hour for Richard Janeway. Alternately he watched the crowd and the streets. The former was silent; the latter empty.

He glanced finally at his watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven—and no Burroughs!

But as he looked again a dust-cloud up Crossley Street resolved itself into a span of galloping horses. Janeway knew them on the instant—Dr. Parker's gray team—and Parker was a great friend of Burroughs!

Something less than a minute later all doubt was past. With a clatter of hoofs and shouts of warning from the two men in the carriage, the span trotted briskly through the crowd and drew up before the bank.

Janeway waved them away from the entrance. Burroughs stood erect, and in either hand was a heavy leather satchel.

"It's all right!" he sang out joyously. "Cadman and Paulson have both started up again, and the Third National. Brooks & Company and Phillips Brothers and three or four more resume to-morrow!"

"Did you get money?" the cashier inquired in low tones.

"One hundred and fifty thousand, right here! I didn't even wait to get detectives to come with me!"

Janeway leaped to his side and raised a hand for silence.

"Will you please form in line and present checks to me here?" he cried. "I think we shall he able to accommodate everybody. Jenkins and Brown, will you come here and give me and Mr. Burroughs a hand?"

Human nature, as some one may have observed before this, is a queer thing. Five minutes before the crowd had been almost ready for bloodshed, so that it secured them their money. Now anxiety vanished as if by magic.

Some two or three dozen lined up beside the doctor's carriage. Before their turns came, half had dropped out. The body of the throng talked excitedly and argued among themselves for a time, and then departed.

The run on the Herdsman's was practically over.

Some thirty minutes later the street was clear save for those directly interested in the bank's operation. Janeway was explaining to Burroughs why the place could not be entered, when a voice came from the doorway.

"Won't yon step in and sit down?"

It was the Graves superintendent. His face was covered by a heavy cloth, and he blinked painfully, but somewhere behind the covering lurked the semblance of a grin.

"The air's more breathable now," he supplemented thickly.

But the best part of another half-hour had elapsed before the brothers, choking still, found themselves alone by the open window of the cashier's office.

"Well, the hank opened her doors, didn't she? And there was no run, was there?"

"There certainly was no run, Bob. How on earth did you menage to smash an ice-machine in such a fashion that this whole building next door was filled?"

"Ice-machines don't smash in a plant that I run," returned the younger brother serenely. "Ours have been going without a hitch for the last six months."

"Then"

"Where did the ammonia come from? How does this strike you?"

He raised his arm and turned on the gas-jet. A strange, lively hissing resulted, and he quickly shut it off again.

"I guess you'll smell a little more ammonia in a minute." he commented.

The cashier smiled in bewilderment.

"You don't mean to say that you turned ammonia gas into those pipes last night?"

"But I did, my boy. With the assistance of your good Timothy, I opened your supply pipe down-stairs by the meter, hitched on a few lengths of piping which protruded from our cellar, and coupled a cylinder of compressed ammonia at the other end. We left all the gas-cocks open, and at eighth-thirty sharp this morning I started things up with a monkey wrench. Say, Dick, you should have seen your clerks break for the open!"

"Well, I'll be everlastingly hanged!" the cashier muttered.

"You needn't be. It was a very bright, bizarre little idea, I will admit, but it's going to cost you just ninety-seven dollars in cash. That's the value of the gas I've squirted in here to-day, and I don't care to have the transaction on the books."

Silently the cashier walked out. When he returned it was with a hundred-dollar bill.

Robert pocketed it indifferently, selected another cigar, and headed for the door.

"I'll keep the odd three," he observed. "I need a new hat, and I've earned it. By-by, Dicky. Get busy with your banking business!"